No doubt about it, my fellow monk, Father Martin, was a bit of an absent-minded professor. He often filled in for sick priests at other parishes, and one Saturday he found himself on a train to a new destination, frantically searching his pockets for his ticket. "Forget about it, Father," said the conductor, recognizing him as a regular. "I'm sure you paid for a ticket." "I can't forget about the ticket," Father Martin replied nervously. "I need to know where I'm going."
